“Alto Clef, there’s something you’d better understand about me ‘cause it’s important, and one day your life may depend on it: I am definitely a mad man with a box!”

~the Doctor, some irrelevant year

The year was [REDACTED] and the place was the TARDIS. Alto Clef had come spiraling through a Level 4 Actualized Spatial Suction and Fragmentation Unraveling Cylindrical Circumvention (L4 A.S.S.F.U.C.C.) Event Field and landed on the floor. He looked up and gasped. It was the Doctor. The Doctor was wearing a bowtie. Then Clef fainted.

Then Clef woke up. As soon as he looked up into the Doctor’s bright something-colored eyes, he felt a pang in his heart: a throbbing, emotionally charged sensation that sent his head spinning before traveling down through his stomach and into his dick, which immediately shot straight up. “I- I am here on behalf of the SCP Foundation,” he stammered out, trying to remember standard operating procedure for encountering sapient entities in foreign reality constructs. “…One moment.” He rolled to the side, slapping his naked eight-inch cock against the floor, and pulled out his radio. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, tuning it to 69.69 MHz.

“No,” Clef growled, and eyed the Doctor as he leant against the wall with his pants unzipped, “but we’re about to.”

“I’ll show you my Keter-class cock if you’ll show me your Sonic Screwdriver,” Clef whispered into the Doctor’s ear, his lips brushing against the taller man’s soft hair with a rough hand braced on his hip and his cock hard against his ass.

“I- I don’t know what that means, but sure-”

“Excellent,” Clef grunted, guiding him over to the couch that for some reason existed in the room. “I’m sure we can learn a lot about each other.”

“The name’s Clef.” He tossed his hair to the side and gave himself a migraine. “Alto Clef.” He looked dramatically into the sunset. The sunset was really a lightbulb. He looked into it anyway. Then his migraine got worse. “Shall we begin?”

“Allons-y.”

Clef turned the Doctor onto his stomach and yanked his annoying brown pants off. He then removed his Scranton Reality Anchor from his belt and started smearing it with Foundation-issue lubricant. “Sorry, but the Hume levels in here are fluctuating between three and five-point-six and I’m going to have to address that somehow.”

“Any word from Ukulele on the reality distortion, Kit?”

Blanchard’s coworker turned to him, leaning back in their chair and propping their feet up on the control desk. “Nope.”

“Really? Nothing’s coming through your radio?”

They shook their head, but stopped. “Well, I mean… there’re some distorted sounds, like scratching and interference.” They held the radio up to their ear. “Electromagnetic interference. Moaning.”

“Excellent.”

Clef was balls-deep in the Doctor when his migraine started getting worse. He knew he had to finish soon, because the lube-y reality anchor was staining the couch. He started thrusting harder, enjoying hearing the Doctor cry out every time the head of his dick rubbed against his prostate. Clef spilled into him with a shuddering gasp, picturing Kondraki’s scruffy beard for just a split second before tightening his grip on the Doctor’s coattail with a satisfied groan.

Truly their respective reality constructs had a lot to learn from each other, Clef thought to himself, pulling out and dripping into his pants. He got up and went to the nonexistent bathroom. "Kit, Blanch. I have an update."

"Fantastic," Kit said. "What're the Hume levels?"

"They were between three and five-point-six for a while, but I addressed the issue using the proper equipment."

"I see." They shuffled paperwork around. "As what should we document this event, exactly?"

"Level 4 A.S.S.F.U.C.C. Event Field issue, taking place in a structure referred to by the subject as a 'Time in Relative Dimension and Space' device."